We're All We've Got
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: This was written for a prompt--Wilson injures himself by doing something ordinary.


House sighed, as Wilson staggered into House's apartment, holding himself up on the wall.

"Wilson, are you drunk?"

Wilson looked up, pupils very large in his unfocused brown eyes.

"No." he said, then fell, curling in on himself.

House sighed again, dragging his obviously intoxicated friend to his feet, and hooking Wilson's arm over his shoulders, holding him up on the way to the bathroom despite the twinges of pain that ran through his thigh from the extra weight.

"M no' drun!" insisted Wilson, as House draped him over the toilet.

"Wilson, you mispronounced the word 'drunk' and you smell like a walking third rate bar. You're sloshed."

"M no'!" repeated Wilson, struggling to a sitting position.

House frowned. Wilson cried a lot when he was drunk. But he wasn't crying now...

Wilson slumped against House's chest, groaning.

House gently ran his hands over Wilson's head, wondering if this was a concussion. He found no bumps or blood, and Wilson shook his head when asked if he had gotten hit or fallen.

"What happened then?"

"I dunnno... was a' th' bar jus' rou' th' corn'rr... had a drin'... jus' one..." Wilson groaned again, as the room spun and his head throbbed, "n th'n I w's th... th... guh.. Vbbb...mmmuk... uhhh..."

House frowned further, as Wilson babbled.

"Wilson. Wilson, look, stay with me, ok?"

Wilson nodded slowly, struggling to keep his eyes open.

House jerked, as Wilson planted a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek.

"Wilson, stop that. Listen, did somebody buy you that drink?"

Wilson kept looking at House, but didn't see him, and his head eventually dropped forward onto House's shoulder.

House dragged Wilson to the livingroom, grabbing a bottle of ipecac on the way.

Wilson groaned and fought, but eventually swallowed the brown liquid.

House stuck a bowl under his head, keeping him on his side, at the same time dialing 911 on his cellphone.

"Hi, yeah, I think somebody poisoned my friend with GHB. No, I don't know for sure, but I'm a doctor and he's semi-responsive, respiration slow, started trying to kiss me which he wouldn't usually do, and–crap! He's seizing. 221 b bakery street, Princeton Plainsborough. Yeah. No, I gave him ipecac, he puked a little, maybe a cup. Thank you."

House dropped the phone, putting his hand under Wilson's head, holding him on his side as he convulsed, vomit and saliva running from his mouth.

"Hang on. Hang on, ok Wilson? Hang on."

Wilson, of course, didn't answer.

By the time the paramedics arrived, Wilson had stopped seizing. In fact, he had stopped doing nearly anything, including breathing. House didn't look up as they came in, concentrating on forcing air into his friend's lungs. He only stopped when one of the paramedics nudged the side of his face with a plastic mask, and he sat up, letting the guy with the bag take over.

House tried to get up. Multiple times. But the time he had spent headless of the pain was over, and he couldn't stand. He had been kneeling on it for too long, the muscle was cramping mercilessly. Only one of the paramedics noticed his struggle, but he shook his head when they took a step towards him. Get Wilson stable, then worry about him. The lady nodded, leaning back over the gurney as it was lowered down the steps.

"Name?" asked one of the two guys.

"His is James Evan Wilson, MD. He's the head of oncology at Princeton Plainsborough, all his medical records are there. Mine's Greg House."

The lady looked a little surprised, as she had come back in after hooking Wilson up to a ventilator in the ambulance.

"Dr. Cameron's old boss?" she asked, extending her hand.

House nodded, gritting his teeth as she pulled him to his feet.

"Damn." he growled, trying to put weight on his leg, but utterly failing.

The lady unceremoniously pulled his arm over her shoulders, practically lifting him out the door.

House barely noticed the jolts to his thigh as the ambulance drove over potholes and speedbumps, all his attention was fixed on his friend, lying motionless on the stretcher.

He could hear the lady talking to the dispatcher and emergency department at PPTH, heard Cameron's surprised voice, heard the lady explain what had happened, and why they thought the problem was what it was–Cameron hadn't needed much beyond "Dr. House said he thought–."

As they pulled up in front of the entrance, House realized he wasn't going to be making it into the hospital without falling, but apparently the lady had told Cameron that he hadn't been able to stand earlier, because next to the group of people with an intubation kit and portable respirator, somebody was holding a cane from the medical supply shop–his own having been left in the bathroom at his apartment during his rush to keep his friend alive.

House didn't even try to keep up with the people wheeling the gurney at a half run into the hospital, didn't try to listen to the nurse rattling off the printed copy of Wilson's basic medical information–blood type O neg, typical–, didn't try to do anything except yell a question after Cameron's disappearing back, listening to the answer–where exactly in the hospital Wilson was headed– and hold himself up, making his very slow way from the ambulance bay to the ICU they were taking Wilson to, supporting himself on the wall and borrowed cane.

"House!" said a familiar voice from ahead of him. He looked up. Cameron was there now, how long had it been since they got there? He couldn't remember, take another step, don't fall... get to Wilson, then you can collapse, just make sure he's alive, take another step, don't fall... he blinked as someone put his arm over their shoulders for the second time that day, holding him up, helping him get to Wilson. He couldn't think, it hurt, he had to get to Wilson...

House groaned, blinking at the lights above his head. A familiar face protruded into his vision, long blond hair brushing his nose.

"House, you passed out. Are you ok?"

Wilson.

He grunted, nodding, and sat up.

They were in the hallway, maybe two minutes normal walk away from the ambulance bay. No wonder Cameron had come back to get him, if he had been that slow...

"Is he ok?"

Cameron nodded.

"He should be ok. They're pumping his stomach right now, you did a good job of getting him to puke though. He's on a respirator, intubated, but his heartrate's decent, it's only his respiration that's very much impaired."

House nodded, still feeling faint.

Cameron watched him for a moment, then got up.

by the time she got back he was struggling to pull himself up on the wall, his thigh a sharp stab of agony surrounded by a sea of merciless aching.

He didn't bother glaring as Cameron helped him into the wheelchair, letting out a groan of relief when the strain was taken off his thigh.

He didn't pay attention to where they were going, for once trusting Cameron to get the job done–he certainly couldn't at this point.

He frowned.

"Why aren't you in there with him?" asked House, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice.

"Because I'm not the attending on call, I'm here because Cassie–one of the paramedics that brought you in–called me and told me it was you two."

House sighed, running his hand over his face.

"Dammit all. What kind of a moron gets himself drugged into a coma at the bar around the corner from where he lives?"

Cameron sighed.

"Not always the kind that manages to get back to where they live before falling into said coma."

House grunted in answer. It was true, if Wilson had fallen two steps away from the door instead of two steps inside it, House might just have come out to get the paper the next morning and found his friend dead on the doorstep.

the next day Wilson had woken up, and was basically fine, except for the lack of feeling in his right arm from about just above his elbow to his fingertips. This was not, however, a result of the drugging, but rather of the circulation below that point being cut off by House's head, which was resting half on the bed, half on Wilson's arm, as the exhausted diagnostician slept, snoring lightly, in a wheelchair next to his best friend's bed.

Wilson was watching him and wondering just what had happened between his deciding to go to the bar for a drink, and his waking up in the hospital hooked to a respirator and being used as a pillow by his misanthropic best friend, when Cameron came it.

"Hi Wilson."

"Hi Cameron. What happened? And how come I don't remember?"

"An awful lot of stuff. All of which, including your lack of memory of the events, precipitated by you getting drugged with GHB."

Wilson groaned, gently removing his arm from under House's drooling head.

House grunted, arm moving forward until it found Wilson's stomach, then resting on it, expression clearing upon finding the warm contact.

Wilson blinked.

Cameron smiled a little.

"He was really worried about you. Still is, apparently."

Wilson snorted, gently placing his hand on the top of House's head.

Cameron smiled again, handed him his chart, and left.

Wilson gently ran his hand through his friend's hair, noting how much thinner it had become since the last time he had done it, when House had been unconscious after being shot–just two years ago.

House's head moved towards his hand a little, and Wilson smiled.

"We're all we've got, huh House?"

"Yeah." answered House, raising his head, Wilson's hand still resting on top of it, "we're all we've got. Until you get married again. Or have another affair with a patient. Or–"

"Shut up House, you're spoiling the moment."

House grinned, resting his chin on the bed.

Wilson smiled, and resumed running his hand through House's hair.


End file.
